


What Remains of a Heart

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elf Aziraphale, Familial Love, Fluff, Found Family, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Dads, M/M, Me and my patchy knowledge of Tolkien lore, Old Friends, Orc Crowley, Slight Hurt/Comfort, Tolkien AU, Tolkien’s Original Languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: After trying to come to terms with her heartbreak and failing, Tauriel goes in search of the one person who could understand... if he’s alive, that is*.*Of course he’s alive, what kind of a question is that?(Sequel to The Orc & The Elf)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Tauriel, Aziraphale/Crowley, Crowley & Tauriel
Series: Good Omens AUs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663576
Comments: 37
Kudos: 222
Collections: Good Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Lord Of The Rings





	What Remains of a Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Orc & The Elf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629461) by [WorseOmens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens). 



> I’ve used Tolkien’s languages a bit in this fic but wow, it’s hard to write in Black Speech/Orkish because there’s so little information on it online. I’ve just had to butcher it, and do what I could. There’s a dictionary/explanation below of the compromise I came to.
> 
> There’s also some art of Elf Aziraphale and Orc Crowley, which I did and posted on my tumblr, here’s a link:  
> https://worse0mens.tumblr.com/post/622824430207451137/i-did-a-partner-piece-this-is-either

Tauriel had hoped that returning to the Greenwood could salve her broken heart. She worked, and trained, and wept on her own, because what elf would listen to the fool who had loved a dwarf? At least she hadn’t known Kili so long that she had forgotten how to live without him. She did not fade, not while there was so much in the world which reminded her of him. The stars, the river, the stone in her pocket marked with runes... 

She’d become isolated since her return from Erebor. Some shunned her. Others shot her those pitying glances, and those stung even more. A rumour had begun that the title of _captain_ was cursed. Her predecessor was kidnapped and killed by a lustful orc; now, if nothing changed, Tauriel could fall victim to her own heartbreak. No one understood. Legolas had left them, not that he’d have really grasped the situation anyway. Now more than ever, she missed Aziraphale. She was more than ready to forget his betrayal if he could be there for her, to listen, to understand what it was like to looked beyond their own kind for love. 

Had he lived, she wondered? Did his orc truly love him, or had he only ever been a tool to escape the dungeons? Thranduil, along with a handful of guards who happened to overhear, had been the few to hear the real version of events. That tale had leaked out, yes, but the official version was far more creditable to most people. Thranduil had insisted that Aziraphale be remembered as a victim, not a traitor who had run away in the name of forbidden love. The orc had corrupted his mind; it was a twisted and backward relationship that didn’t deserve to be romanticised, so he said. That much, Tauriel had agreed with — at least while her head still ached and she still remembered the taste of the gag they’d used to silence her. She went along with Thranduil’s lie. It made no difference, really. For years, she thought that Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have survived his affair, but now... Now, she didn’t want to believe that anymore. She needed him. She needed to believe in love again. All too often, she found herself cursing it, and it was leading down a cold and bitter path. She couldn’t stay in the forest anymore. 

”It will be a sore loss,” said Thranduil when she came to him, telling him of her resignation. 

She gave a small nod. “I am not glad to leave, but... there are things I must find,” she said. 

He stared at her for a long moment. “If you are going in search of your mentor, I would not hope to find him... unspoiled,” he said with an undercurrent of distaste. “An orc is no fit match for an elf. He is not likely to have survived more than a year.”

“I cannot afford to believe in so bleak a picture,” she said stubbornly. 

“Reality often comes at a heavy price,” he said, leaning back on his throne. They both knew the weight of love lost; his words drew on a truth painted in blood. “I fear that if you do not like what you find, Tauriel... it will cost you the rest of your heart.”

“That may be so,” she said. “But I have faith in him. Aziraphale was stronger than we knew. I believe he could still be alive, and I intend to track him down.”

“Then this is goodbye, Tauriel,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “May fate serve you better this time.”

Tauriel’s quest took her westwards. Aziraphale could be anywhere in Middle Earth — he’d always talked about travelling — but she knew where the start. She began on the very ridge where he had first met Crowley. There were no tracks, of course, not now so many years had passed, but from here she could look out across the lands and see what would have drawn their eye. 

She visited Beorn’s house next. He’d heard nothing of any orc nearby, and a good thing too, he said. She left feeling dejected. She daren’t tell him too much of her quest, lest he turn against her. She was left sitting by the river, refilling her water skins and scanning the landscape anew. She tried to arrange her thoughts. There were three possibilities, in her mind.

First, that it had been love, and Aziraphale had gone through the mountain pass with his lover to explore Middle Earth as far from the Great Greenwood as he could go. He used to collect maps of the west, when he could. He talked animatedly of the skilled dwarven craftspeople of the Blue Mountains, and of the terrific food-loving hobbits of The Shire who he’d love to meet one day. If he had a lover to share his adventures with, that is surely where they’d go. 

But then... perhaps something hadn’t worked out the way he’d hoped. The orc might have been killed on the road. Aziraphale may have had to take his life himself, in self-defence. In other words, he was alone. If that was the case, surely he would have sought the company of other elves, wouldn’t he? He could have gone south to Lothlórien. Fellow woodland elves might have been willing to grant him asylum in return for his skills. 

That left one more option. To the north lay the fortress of Gundabad, riddled with blood-hungry orcs. They’d love nothing better than to have an elf to butcher for meat, or to rip apart in sickeningly creative ways. If Crowley had taken him there, Aziraphale had died long ago. 

She looked west, to the Misty Mountains bristling in the distance. He had to be somewhere out there, alive. He had to be. Standing up, she slung her bag over her shoulder again, and set out toward the mountain pass. 

“Seron, dear, not so fast,” Aziraphale said, following his daughter down the forest path. “Stay where I can see you.”

“Sorry, Ada,” she said, hurrying back towards him. She was only seven, and despite her adventurous spirit, she understood that it was easy to get lost in these woods. That, and travellers used this road now and then, and it was best to stay out of their way when they did. 

“It’s alright, dear,” he said, taking her hand. They’d come out to gather wild blackberries for lunch. Crowley had impressed a strong love of fresh fruit onto his daughter, and they spent many afternoons in the garden together, tending to the plants and talking about what to grow. 

“Sharkû says the strawberry plants might flower soon,” she said. “D’you think they will?”

“If he says so,” he replied patiently. “Perhaps when they fruit, we can dry them out for snacks. How does that sound?”

“Yummy!” she said with a big grin. 

They were nearly at the blackberry thicket when Aziraphale heard footsteps up ahead. He paused. “Off the path, Seron,” he said quietly, ushering her quickly into the trees. “Come along now. Hurry.”

“Are we playing hide and seek?” she whispered, her wide green eyes staring up at him. She was still trying to grasp the idea that strangers couldn’t be trusted.

“Something like that,” he said, hunkering down behind a fallen tree. He held a finger up to his lips. Seron nodded, mimicking the gesture. 

Aziraphale drew his sword, the hiss of the metal melding with the rustling leaves. He waited. He was overreacting, perhaps, but ever since Seron had learned to walk, he’d become suspicious of travellers. Anyone could snatch his baby from the trails if they weren’t on their guard. He wouldn’t start a fight with any innocent adventurer just passing through, but he’d sure as hell be ready for one. 

The footsteps paused. They were light, perhaps elven... His heart dropped. Crowley was home alone, and unguarded. If he was spotted, he was sure to be ambushed. He looked at Seron, crouched by the log and blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation. He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. 

“Who’s there?” called a voice from the path. Aziraphale frowned. That voice... A bowstring creaked, and he winced. “Show yourself. I mean no harm.”

“... Tauriel?” he called hesitantly. He had to ask. “Is that you, my dear?”

“Aziraphale?” she replied. He peeked over the top of the log. Tauriel stood on the trail, her bow half-lowered. Her weapons clattered to the ground the moment they met eyes. “You’re alive!”

She rushed over as he stood up, sheathing his sword. She was about to throw her arms around him — human ways of showing affection were often more effective, she thought — when another sight pulled her up short. A young elfing with curly white-blond hair and green eyes hopped onto the fallen tree, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm.

“Ada, who’s she?” she asked. 

Tauriel’s jaw slackened. Aziraphale was a father? But — ? She looked into his eyes, and saw something different there, something shining behind the blue of his irises. He was married. Elves could see when another had given themselves away; it left a mark on their souls. The child with him bore a passing resemblance to him, too, she supposed... though she must take after her mother, whoever that was. 

“This is Tauriel,” Aziraphale said, brushing Seron’s hair behind her ear. “A very old friend of mine. Tauriel, meet my daughter, Seron.”

“Mae g'ovannen,” said Tauriel with a small smile, suppressing her curiosity for a moment. 

“Le fael,” she replied hesitantly, looking to her father for reassurance. 

“Yes, that’s right, dear,” he said warmly. He turned back to Tauriel. “Sindarin isn’t her mother tongue. She’s still learning.”

“Of course,” she said, though in truth she wasn’t quite sure she understood. Why wouldn’t it be her first language?

“How on earth did you find us?” Aziraphale said, scooping his daughter into his arms and climbing over the log. “We’ve been very careful to stay hidden these last few years.”

“This is a chance meeting, but I admit I set out from the Greenwood in search of you,” she said, picking up her weapons from the ground. “Though I did not expect to find you here, nor married with a child. What became of your... past involvement?”

She glanced at Seron, who was innocently watching the exchange. Tauriel wasn’t sure if she knew about her father’s dalliance with an orc, or if the memory may sting for Aziraphale. To her surprise, his brow scrunched with amused incredulity. “Crowley, you mean? Handsome Gundabad orc, red hair...?” he said, and she nodded. “My dear girl, who else do you think I married?” 

She blinked. “No. Can it — ? No. Really?” she stammered, taken aback. Though she’d hoped to find Aziraphale alive and not as disillusioned with love as she had been, she hadn’t quite put together the obvious implications of that. For elves, marriage and sex were the very same act. She gawked at Aziraphale. “With an — ? You... You let an orc...?”

She trailed off, conscious of their young audience. Aziraphale tutted and rolled his eyes. “Not right away, but yes, eventually,” he said, setting Seron down on her feet when she began to wriggle. “He was more than happy to wait for me once I explained the significance.”

Still, she looked slightly ashen at the thought. “How considerate of him.”

“Oh, don’t look so horrified. Orcs and elves aren’t so different, biologically speaking. There was nothing unusual involved,” he said, wording it delicately and dropping his voice a little lower so Seron couldn’t hear. “He treated me very well. He always does.”

She squirmed, eager to steer away from this topic. “I’m relieved you seem so happy,” she said, though her eyes flicked to Seron in a questioning manner. If Aziraphale had no wife, where had the elfling come from? He seemed to pick up on the question. 

“Come back to ours. I can fix up some tea, and we can just... just talk, in a nice civilised manner,” he said carefully. He fixed her bow with a pointed look. “And no weapons in the house.”

Crowley slouched in the armchair. It was a pleasant day, no need for the fire yet, and perfect for napping after a long morning spent digging up weeds. Seron would no doubt make it her business to wake him up when she got home, so he enjoyed the peace and quiet while he had it. As if on cue, the front door creaked, and he heard the patter of small feet run into the living room. 

“Sharkû!” she cried. It was the closest thing there was to _father_ in orkish; _old man._ He didn’t stir, smothering a grin. She grabbed his hand and tugged on it. “Sharkû! Wake up!”

He couldn’t help it. He began to smirk, but stubbornly kept his eyes shut, badly pretending to be asleep. Seron crawled onto the chair, leaning heavily on his chest. “I know you’re awake!” 

“Nah, m’not,” he replied, and let out a theatrical snore.

“You are! You just spoke,” she insisted. She poked his shoulder. “Come on! Ada’s friend is here, she wants to say hello.”

His eyes popped open in surprise. “Ada’s who?”

He looked across, and saw Tauriel in the doorframe before anything else. A snarl ripped from his throat. “Masgûl, behind me!” he barked, leaping to his feet, shielding Seron where she landed on the armchair. He bore his teeth. “You’ve got cheek, showing up here.”

She held up her hands, glancing helplessly over her shoulder for someone. “I mean you no harm,” she said. Orcs were never unarmed; their teeth and claws were as sharp as any dagger. If he attacked, she was done for.

“Just a social call, then, is it?” he said sarcastically, a constant rumbling growl deep in his chest.

“Sharkû,” Seron cut in helpfully, tugging his shirt. “Carnish. Mashai gimbat, agh Ada thraktul u Lughai.”

“Gimbat Ada? Lughai-ishi?” he asked, not daring to take his eyes off Tauriel. He saw the horror in her eyes, hearing Orkish from an elfing’s mouth, and sneered. _That’s right, she’s mine,_ he thought viciously, imposing himself between his daughter and the guard; _and don’t you forget it._

Seron nodded, deaf to his possessive internal monologue. “Ada!” she called loudly. 

The front door opened again after a moment of tense silence. Aziraphale bustled inside. “Ah, good. I see you’ve already got chatting,” he said, as if oblivious to Tauriel’s fear and Crowley’s aggressive stance. “I’ll put the tea on, shall I?” 

Crowley scowled. “Alba. What’s she doing here?” he said, jerking his head at Tauriel.

“She’s a guest,” he said with a pout. 

Tauriel edged backwards slightly, feeling very vulnerable, unarmed in a hostile environment. The light made the sharp tips of Crowley’s claws gleam nastily. “If I’m not welcome, I can — “

“No. Gi nathlam hí, Tauriel,” Aziraphale said, holding up his hand to stop her. “Crowley... she found us for a reason. She’s a friend.”

“And a Greenwood guard,” he said stubbornly, reaching behind his back to hold Seron’s hand. The elfling ignored his grasping hand, and hugged his whole forearm instead; he finally broke his glare at Tauriel, looking at his daughter with unguarded fondness. That tender moment was plain for everyone to see. 

“As was I, and yet you seem perfectly fond of me,” he retorted, crossing his arms. “She is staying for dinner, we’re listening to what she has to say, and that’s final.”

Crowley huffed, his defences broken by the small elf hanging from his arm. “Fine. But there’ll be no — ”

“No weapons, yes, I’ve already taken them,” he said. 

“Hm. That’s alright then. C’mon, masgûl,” he said tightly, extracting his arm from his daughter’s grip and picking her up. He disappeared out the front door without another word. He wanted to keep an eye on her while there was an outsider in the house. 

Tauriel watched him go. “Is that normal?” she said, unsettled by his prickly attitude. 

“Where unexpected guests are concerned? Often. Orcs are very territorial creatures,” he said with a sigh. He began to fluff the pillows on the armchair. “He’s gone to cool down. Seron will cheer him up, no doubt.”

She thought hard on her next words before she said them. “She uses Black Speech more confidently than Sindarin,” she said. The judgemental edge to her words showed more than she’d intended. 

Aziraphale shot her a hard look. “It’s Gundabad Orkish, actually,” he said. “She finds it easier to pronounce. Crowley’s very proud, and I see no harm in it.”

Tauriel winced. It was hard to accept, the idea of such an ill-omened creature raising an elf as his own. “Will she not grow up believing she is an orcling?” she asked, pacing around the room. She tried to swallow back her contempt; this wasn’t just any old monster. This was _Aziraphale’s_ orc, she tried to remind herself. She didn’t come all this way just to judge them. She came to make herself believe in love again.

“In some ways, she is,” he said defensively. “She can choose to be whatever she likes. She’s already asked if she can learn to use a scimitar, like her sharkû.”

“And...?”

He frowned. “And she’s seven. I told her to wait,” he said. He looked back toward her taut, worried expression, and all that lay beneath: pain, loss, and a story untold. “Take a seat, dear. Why did you come looking for me, did you say?”

She bit her lip. With a sigh, she sat on the armchair, hanging her head slightly. Aziraphale’s soft, non-judgemental stare rested on her. “I fell in love, Aziraphale, with someone who I ought not to have loved,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “And I lost him.”

“Ah,” he said, his mood turning somber. He reached across to take her hand. “Tell me what happened, dear.”

She began by explaining the darkness over the Greenwood — Mirkwood, as it had become. Aziraphale was politely concerned, as if he were a mere outsider. She supposed that’s how he saw himself, now. She doubted that it had ever really been home to him. Maybe, to Aziraphale, the Great Greenwood had always been Mirkwood. If she’d harboured any distant hope that he might return with her, it was gone. 

Talking about Kili, finally, was cathartic. She could describe his face, his voice, his cheeky demeanour, and never worry that she’d be judged. She’d loved a dwarf. Here, she could say it out loud, without shame. She retold every moment of the time they’d spent together. When all was done, she wiped her teary eyes, and leaned her full weight into the chair. She could see why Aziraphale preferred this small, cosy life. It grounded her. It kept her humble. She looked up, and startled at the sight of the orc in the doorway. 

“The humans have a saying,” Crowley said, his voice low and respectful. “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

It tempted a watery smile from her. “Wise words, for mortals.”

“They know loss better than any of us,” he said. Aziraphale nodded soberly. “Why don’t you come and meet Rover? Seron’s out there tugging on his ears at the moment, he could use some help.”

Tauriel looked at Aziraphale, who smiled encouragingly. “Of course,” she said, getting to her feet. Crowley was beginning to accept her; he must have listened to her tale through an open window. 

He was right. Rover lay on the ground while Seron valiantly tried to braid the tufts of fur on his ears and, to his credit, he tolerated her. He’d had a softspot for the little elf ever since his master first introduced him to that little bundle of cloth. It seemed that he’d just added another elf to his little tribe, too. Tauriel kindly nudged Seron’s hands away from his ears, offering to let her braid her hair instead. She took one look at Tauriel’s silky red locks and beamed. Crowley smirked. She’d regret that, but it would be fun to watch. He grabbed a brush, and set about combing Rover’s fur straight again. Aziraphale joined them not long after, bringing a bowlful of chopped fruit and good cheese from the pantry.

Tauriel sat cross-legged as Seron pulled her hair, often a little too hard, but she didn’t make a peep. She was a warrior. She’d had worse. The little elf chattered as she worked, haphazardly scattering Orkish and Sindarin words into her sentences at a relentless pace that made her train of thought hard to follow. It was quite sweet nonetheless. Aziraphale sat beside her, plucking at the strings of a lyre. The lilting melody was interrupted only when he paused to snack on the treats from the pantry. Rover tried to steal a bite, too, but Crowley flicked his nose. Cheese was no good for wargs. The orc wasn’t as stern a master as he made out, though; he took a rabbit from the line for Rover to chew on instead. 

Tauriel smiled. Thranduil was right; what she had found here had cost her the rest of her heart. A warmth returned to her chest, kindled by the music, fair weather, and good company. Romance was not the only type of love an elf could have, after all. Sometimes, family was just as good.

**Author's Note:**

> Sindarin:  
> Mae g'ovannen — Nice to meet you  
> Le fael — Thank you  
> Gi nathlam hí — We welcome you here 
> 
> “Gundabad Orkish” (i.e. me, desperately cobbling together semi-coherent sentences from the tiny fragments of Black Speech & Orkish we have):
> 
> Sharkû — old man/father (probably meant as an insult in Tolkien’s original language, but I’ve twisted the meaning into “father” because it’s the closest match I could find)
> 
> Masgûl** — daughter [mas=my, gûl=wraith/servant of Sauron, used here to mean “close trustworthy (subordinate) person”]  
> ((Crowley uses Masgûl as a pet name for Seron, almost like “my dear/my baby/my sweet”))
> 
> Carnish! Mashai** gimbat, agh Ada thraktul u Lughai**.  
> Meaning: A surprise! We were found and Dad brought them home.  
> Literal translation [with notes]:  
> Ambush! [Used here to mean “surprise”] Our-folk [“mas” (literally “my”) + “hai” (literally “folk“) used to mean “we, us”] found and Dad brought them to folk-tower [“hai” (literally “folk”) used to mean “us/our”, and “Lug” (literally “tower“) used to mean “home/house”]
> 
> Gimbat Ada? Lughai-ishi**?  
> Literally: To find father? In folk-tower?  
> Meaning: Where is Dad? In the house?
> 
> **Words I made up by combining fragments of Tolkien’s original Orkish/Black Speech


End file.
